Through a tunnel of trees my legs propel me. The sun filtered through a twisted maze of leaves and branches. Barely patches of sky peeking blue around lush fingers of green and brown. The shadows are alive. The earth hums contentedly. Shoes snap gravel and dust. Barely visible hanging in shafts and stillness. It is summer and I am alone. Wandering freely. Unencumbered by the day or the hour.
The voice in my head flutters with the wings of birds. And the sound of scraping one hand against another. My eyes fill with darkness and light. The chiaroscuro designs of a closed mouthed non-deity. Lost in the landscape. My heart filled with broken twigs and twisted spines. And the buried bones of countless small souls. Who lived their lives anonymously. I self-incinerate and my ashes blow away.
In the wild I confront my illness and cautiously heal. An aficionado of the great indoors. An existential crisis is unmaking itself. I laugh at the sadness. A full-blooded, great-throated bellow. A heckle exchange with the comedian onstage. A oak has fallen and I am a witness. The lone sentient being. A testament to entropic desire. I can be happy even if happiness is fleeting. I can fleet. So fleeting is fine.
Through a tunnel of trees my legs propel me. The sun filtered through a twisted maze of leaves and branches. Barely patches of sky peeking blue around lush fingers of green and brown. The shadows are alive. The earth hums contentedly. Shoes snap gravel and dust. Barely visible hanging in shafts and stillness. It is summer and I am alone. Wandering freely. Unencumbered by the day or the hour. . .
